


untitled

by trykko



Category: MS Paint Fan Adventures
Genre: F/M, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Sibling Incest, fanadventure, go big or go home: the nindo, happy things for a happy birthday, lucidstuck, no idea what this is but it happened so no take backs, whats more happy than alice having serious issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-21
Updated: 2016-09-21
Packaged: 2018-08-16 13:29:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8104207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trykko/pseuds/trykko
Summary: Will Derrick ever get a break? Not really.





	

**Author's Note:**

> happy birthday ip bro!! dedicating this to you bc the whole 2 times we've talked you've been a real dude. 
> 
> *coughs*
> 
> when ip told me his ls origin story i was like shit! this guy is dedicated to his craft ya'll -- dedicated as hell. im not saying im in a gang, but if i was, and i was cornered by some punk ass rival mob, ip'd have my back. he's just that type of dude. also, the nifty rogue type of dude. i'm a nifty warrior type girl so be balance out too. take the assholes down in what? 3 minutes. tops. im not gonna world build but there are elves and shady kingdom politics involved.
> 
> what im saying is if this dude had a cult i'd join. i'd even wear the fugly blanker drapes AND i'd sacrifice the virgin. hell, i'd suggest a virgin. i'd be like "pick Samantha. we wont miss her if im honest. who doesnt bring tacos to taco Tuesday." sorry Samantha. 
> 
> i'd do it bc ip puts effort into what he does and it shows. i wouldn't have the patience for that bruh. this dude is top notch when it comes to not giving up on stuff so! great job man! 
> 
> *end powerpoint*

 

**01 submission and silence**

 

Mornings are quiet –

 

There are no birds chirping outside (it seems even that pesky crow has finally left them alone, thank God), there are no cars passing, no wind blowing, no snippets of muted, illegible conversations as people walk past. She isn’t sure if anyone even passes their house anymore, if they maybe cross the street instead.  

 

She likes it better like that; the thought of just the two of them living together is a nice one. No one else.  Alone, together.  

 

Derrick doesn’t sleep well anymore, if at all.

 

When she asks him about it he grumbles something about red, beady eyes and murderous smiley-emojis into his breakfast, the bags under his eyes unbelievably dark against the pale skin. Her highlights shimmer under the struggling sunlight when she leans her chin onto her palm – they’re always existing in stark contrasts.  

 

He doesn’t ask her, but she hasn’t slept that night either. She spent it listening to him shift and turn, to his bed creak and whine. She spent it listening to his bare feet against the floor, dull thuds leading to the bathroom. She spent it closing her eyes and biting her lip, imagining what would happen if she’d follow him. What he would say. What she would say. What they’d _do_.  

 

“Can you pass me the salt?” She asks, careful to keep her thoughts from straying when he’s sitting in front of her, in the flesh. The real Derrick is always better, she finds – he’s not quite like she wishes he’d be, and there is a thrill in that. Plus, he’s her brother and he can be as flawed as he wants. 

 

She picks up the slack- after all, they have to even each other out.

 

(He is her flipside, what she could have been hadn’t she been herself;

 

Maybe she wouldn’t like him as much if he was as great as her, a dark part of her thinks.) 

 

The salt is closer to her than to him, but Derrick hesitates only briefly – Alice never really _asks_ for things. How can it be a question when it sounds like a command?  

 

When she takes it from his hand there is a moment when they touch, the barest quicksilver of skin on skin contact. He meets her eyes, heavily lidded and inviting, and she smiles. It’s an intimate, grateful, indulging smile. He flinches. 

 

“Thank you, _brother_.” 

 

 _You know my secret and I know yours._  

 

She always has to be careful with Derrick. He’s fragile. She always had to be careful _around_ him, too.

 

So she backs off, momentarily satisfied, and finishes off her omelette. She can’t resist brushing her foot against his, though – hidden from view, under the table even though there's no one around but them.  

 

 _You know my secret and I know yours._  

 

He knows it all too well; he tries to forget about it every day.  

She knows it all too well; he doesn’t have _anyone_ else. She relishes it.  

 

Mornings are quiet –  

 

She thinks it’s because they both stay awake, thinking of each other. Breakfast is peaceful, pleasant. A substitute for the afterglow they can’t quite share together yet.  

 

Mornings are quiet –  

 

He thinks they only go silent when she speaks, because her voice is so chilling. Breakfast is awkward, stifling, uncomfortable. The aftermath of something he doesn’t want to think about.  

 

He can’t wait for the day to be night again.  

 

**02 Certainty and commitment**

 

She knows now that there is beauty in the way that Derrick cringes.  

 

It used to pain her when he recoiled, it used to hurt so, so bad. She’d see him sitting shoulder to shoulder with that _bitch_ , that _homewrecker_ , that _unwanted_ , _unneeded_ maggot. They’d talk and laugh.

 

Derrick rarely talks to her. Derrick rarely laughs with her.

 

When he acts like her skin is scalding – when all she has for him is love and devotion, care and affection – it's hurtful. She’s been so patient, so understanding. _He_ was always slow. _He_ didn’t touch her, he never touched her, and now she couldn’t touch _him_?  

 

So it’s terrible at first – when he avoids her eyes and her room and _her_. She spends nights wondering who’s responsible.  But then she thinks it’s not so bad.  If her touch burns him so much, doesn’t that mean that she’s _fire_?  

 

He doesn’t enter her room because he’s cautioned by the smoke, that's it, that's all. Derrick – he's always scared of things he can't see, of the unknown. Sometimes he's scared of the familiar too. There are days when he's afraid of everything, staring at his journal like it holds all the answers in the world. She catches him talking to his plushie from time to time.

 

(Honestly, the only reason she doesn’t have him locked up is because no doctor will _ever_ get him like she does.)

 

He avoids her eyes because she flickers brightly, that's it, that's all. She glows with radiance, and he’s afraid because she's capable for turning him into dust and ashes. It must be though, she sympathizes. Derrick is living with the sun and he's a moon. He won't ever compare – she tells him he doesn’t need too, that moonlight is pretty too. Not like sunshine, but still.

 

(He doesn't say anything back.)

 

Moths are drawn to light; it's why Lucas can't keep away. There are plenty of other months like him and when they come too close – they always do, she's irresistible - she uses their ashes to grow even bigger. It's nothing personal, usually, just survival of the fittest. Extinction of the dumbest. Reality. Whatever you wanna call it.

 

But she doesn’t want to consume Derrick like that. She doesn't want him to die off or suffer at all. The sun kind of needs the moon like it needs her – like it needs stars. For him, she doesn't mind dimming it down from time to time.

 

So Derrick isn’t a moth – she wouldn't be cruel to him like that. Derrick is the shadow she casts, she doesn’t need to draw him in.

 

He’s already stuck.  

 

**03 crime and punishment**

 

Alice doesn’t care anymore.

 

“ _Stay away for me!_ ” he says.

 

Alice really doesn’t care anymore.

 

Alice doesn’t need to care anymore, if she’s honest. She’s begged and pleased and compromised, compromised, compromised. She’s let him have all of her and all of the fun and he’s thrown it back in her face. He’s ungrateful and she’s never felt so _unwanted_ in her life.

 

People crawl on their knees to catch a glimpse of her, does he know that?

 

She has people asking for her number left and right. When she was a freshman, she turned down seniors. Now that she’s a senior, she turns down everyone.

 

He doesn’t seem to know, not with the way he sits at their table. Shares their lunches. Listens to their voices like they matter. It’s not going to be long before he’ll sleep in their beds. Share their toothbrushes and their kisses.

 

(She has to fight for hers. She _always_ has to fight for hers.)

 

It’s tiring to catch his eyes over the flocking admirers, furious and displeased. It’s tiring to laugh at jokes with the other cheerleaders – she doesn’t remember a single one of their faces – when she’s betrayed and broken, stabbed from behind and left for dead by someone she’s trusted.

 

She’s always been an emperor, she likes to rule– but she’s not going to die here, with a knife sticking out of her back.

 

He’s pushed too far; does he know that?

 

She doesn’t _care_ anymore; does he know that?

 

Because he’s about to find out, either way.

 

If he can’t handle her on his skin, that’s fine, she’ll just crawl under it. She’ll make herself comfortable between the muscles and the tissue, she’ll use his veins to hang her dirty laundry. She’ll make a home out of him and she’ll stay until she’s as much a part of his as his limbs. She’ll spend days there, carving her name into every part of his body and they’ll call in sick for a whole week –

 

Two weeks,

 

Three weeks,

 

A month or two.

 

So they all _know_ , so they won’t doubt it anymore, so it’s not just hushed scandalous whispers but a reality.

 

It’s so that he’ll be hers. So that he doesn’t remember how to leave anymore. Mostly it’s to hollow out his bones so that she’ll always have somewhere to hide – so that she’s the only thing that keeps him standing.

 

She’ll play music with his ribs as a xylophone and she’ll sing into his ears so that it’ll drown out his crying.

 

“No one needs to know, Derrick least of all.” That’s how it _used_ to be. But now she just wants him to listen, to hear her voice and her voice only. She’ll tell him exactly what’s going on, no more games.

 

It’s so that he’ll remember, so that he won’t ever forget, so that he’ll know that even when she’s absent he belongs to her – that he belongs _with her._ And no one else. So that he’ll never think of Lexii or Garry or Lucas or Emily or _Lucia_ ever again, so that he’ll wipe himself clean of their disgusting presence and fingerprints.

 

(How dare they? How dare they touch him?)

 

She’ll hold her heart in her right hand, she’ll clench her fist so that he hurts when she hurts. So he’ll hurt like she did.

 

She didn’t want it to be, but that’s love. That’s true love, when someone doesn’t want you back. 

 


End file.
